


Sing Along (If You Want Me To)

by luninosity



Series: McFassy Regency AU [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angsty Schmoop, Arranged Marriage, British Politics, Chocolate, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Music, Napoleonic Wars, Piano, Realization, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arranged marriages are never easy; pianos and the Napoleonic War; chocolate éclairs and declarations of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Along (If You Want Me To)

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to the other McFassy Regency AU short fic! Someday there might be a third one; we'll see. Title from the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Luna,” which I’ve always loved and you should too. The first waltz that James plays is a reference to an Eloisa James novel, too.

They might be married, but they still know almost nothing about each other.

This fact becomes abundantly clear a few short weeks into the union. To be precise, the week in which the London Season begins, and the invitations, for balls and parties and dinners, start arriving. The week in which James discovers that, while Michael is occupied by matters of Parliament, he himself is expected to know how to entertain guests at a dinner that includes both the French ambassador and the Prince Regent’s current mistress.

Michael’d made that particular revelation casually, over breakfast, and then had said “Is that a problem?” when James had stared at him, wide-eyed. “Surely you knew you’d be asked to host events, given our position, and I have other obligations—”

“Yes, but I thought I’d have help!”

“You have a house filled with servants!”

“That’s not—you know I’m not good at—” James had sighed. Run a hand through his hair. He _isn’t_ good at giving orders; he’s just not used to it. His family’d had exactly three servants. The cook. His sister’s maid. And John, who’d pretty much been their groom and carpenter and everything else.

He’s still not certain how many people Michael employs, but it’s decidedly more than three. More than three dozen.

That isn’t even the problem, though. Not at the core. The problem lies in all the things he doesn’t know. The intricate dances of rank and social standing and etiquette that the upper class has been trained for since birth, the subtle ballet of privilege and prestige that James will never master, not in the way that he needs. Not soon enough.

He tries. He does try. And everything he does is passable enough, or so it seems; nothing overtly terrible ever occurs, and no one seems dreadfully offended even when the order of precedence at their first dinner comes out wrong, and he doesn’t commit any catastrophic breaches of etiquette.

But nothing’s right, either. Not entirely.

He _is_ a gentleman’s son, even if that gentleman happened to be merely a country squire. And he’s not uneducated, and he’s not socially unacceptable. And marriage between two men, while not common, isn’t unheard of, for political or financial reasons. So it isn’t a scandal.

A scandal might’ve been better, though. Better than the quiet whispers, when no one thinks he can hear, or, worse, when they don’t care that he can. Better than the speculations, and insinuations, about why he’s here.

Fortune hunter, he hears, more than once. A young man with nothing to his name, capturing one of the wealthiest men in England for his husband. Using his looks—or other talents, suggest some of the coarser rumors—to acquire Michael’s money for his own.

He also hears murmurs about the arranged marriage, from people who obviously know slightly more of the story: the promises made by their fathers, to maintain their friendship through their children’s union. These people tend to admire Michael’s honor, for keeping his father’s word. Despite, it’s implied, such a poor return.

James _is_ poor, of course. And has spent his entire life in the country. And, on top of everything, he’s Scottish.

This last adjective is often murmured with fascinated disdain by the London elite. Michael is strictly speaking not English either, being of Irish and German descent, but the unspoken weight of all that money silences the insults before they’re ever spoken, on that front.

James’s family has no money, or at least not enough to compensate for the uncivilized heritage.

Morbidly, James catches himself wondering, the first time he accompanies Michael to a formal assembly, how many of those present had been expecting him to turn up in a kilt and stab his meat with a dagger.

After a while, the wondering isn’t funny anymore.

That’s not even the worst of it. The worst is the pity. Not for him. For Michael. Who’s apparently been trapped into this lopsidedly painful agreement by his own sense of duty.

James tries to tell himself that that isn’t true. Michael wanted to marry him. Wants to be married to him. And there are good moments, there are brilliant moments, Michael waking up yawning and sleepy at his side in the mornings, asking his opinion about proposed new taxes over toast, smiling at him with the warm vulnerability no one else ever sees, when James brings him post-Parliamentary-debate whisky, in celebration, and their fingers touch over cleanly-etched glass.

Michael’s fingers are always warm. They’re even more so when they trace searingly erotic lines across his skin, in the night.

But Michael is always gone during the day. While James is alone in the immense London house—one of, apparently, six Fassbender estate properties; James has only ever seen two of them—and he’s never quite sure what Michael expects him to _do_.

Other, of course, than entertain. And learn overnight how to be a perfect politically advantageous spouse.

Michael never says thank you, after James spends weeks planning the events they’re required by social expectations to host. He seems to assume that, if things are going well, that’s merely as they should be. No need for comment, not when it’s a simple meeting of expectations.

He’d probably say something, James thinks, if anything were to go wrong. But James can’t let anything go wrong. Nothing that might affect Michael’s position.

So he does the best he can. And he falls more in love with Michael, helplessly, every day, every minute, every time Michael comes home annoyed at the Regent’s constant overspending or excited about new diplomatic overtures from Portugal or just smiling because one of his business investments has paid off. Michael is always thinking about the country, James thinks, about what he can do to assist with the war against Napoleon, or how he can improve working conditions for his own employees, but always about making the world a better place.

He’d caught himself smiling, at that thought. And then had gone off to memorize everything he could about Portugal, just in case the knowledge might be useful for Michael’s treaty negotiations.

That time, it had been. The ambassadors had appreciated the attention to detail. The gestures, like the mingling of Portuguese and English foods throughout dinner. James had thought, at the time, that he wasn’t being terribly subtle; but that one’d earned one of Michael’s rare smiles, across the distance of the table, near the end of the dessert course.

James had smiled back, and thought, _I love you_ , and hadn’t said the words out loud, because he has no reason to think that Michael would ever say them back.

It’s still an arranged marriage. And just because they’ve mutually decided to make it work, just because they find each other likeable, just because James has stupidly let himself tumble hopelessly into love, that doesn’t make the arrangement mean anything more.

Especially not, he thinks now, on a night like this one.

It’s a lovely night in all other respects. The air is crisp without being cold; the ballroom, decorated carefully to suit the Prince Regent’s rather opulent tastes, has met with murmured approval—slightly startled approval, as if they’d not been expecting success—from the invited guests, and James had even managed to steal one of the last chocolate éclairs before they’d all promptly vanished.

It’d been delicious—which it should’ve been, considering the expense—until the last bite, at which point he’d been glancing around for a napkin, wondering whether anyone would notice if he licked delectable chocolate filling from his fingers, and had overheard little snippets of conversation, drifting past potted ferns like falling snow, and as cold.

_Impressive_ , he’d heard. _For someone with no refinement_. _A remarkable achievement._ And, _perhaps he’s not only a pretty face._

_No_ , someone else had said, _I’m sure he’s got pretty other things, too_. And they’d laughed. James had tried to escape, since the voices were coming closer, but he was standing in a corner, where he’d snuck off to enjoy his éclair in private, and he didn’t have anywhere to go.

The chocolate had dissolved into dust, in his mouth. Like dirt. Probably Scottish dirt, even.

They’d seen him, of course. Smiled. Thanked him for inviting them. He’d nodded, because he couldn’t find words.

He’d nodded again—an object in motion tended to remain in motion—at the compliment that wasn’t one: _Fassbender must appreciate your skills. So good at making everything appear festive. Ornamental. Very…pretty_.

And then they’d gone. Leaving him immobile, still voiceless, beside the unsupportive fern.

He can’t leave the room—how would that appear, if he vanished in the midst of his and Michael’s dinner party?—and he can’t scream or cry, can’t let out all the mortification and rage and pain in public.

He can’t let it out at all. Michael might not love him, but Michael is fond of him, and Michael will be hurt, on James’s behalf, if he ever has to know.

He can make his way to the back of the room, though, to the large dark bulwark of the piano, one of the few recognizable shapes in the glitter of the night. James knows pianos. And they know him, even this one, which he’s never played, though he’s seen it often, every time he’s walked through this room in the past few months. He’s touched it, occasionally, wanting to do more, wondering if he’d be allowed. It wants that too, he thinks. Wants his presence to make it come alive. At least someone does.

He touches the piano, lightly. The sleek wood offers faint reassurance, against his fingertips. Even when he shuts his eyes and imagines himself alone with the instrument, paper and pens and music at his fingertips, it’s not enough.

“In retreat from the hordes?”

James glances up. His first impression is of the nose, and then the height, and then the eyes, which fix on his with disconcerting intelligence. They’re not, however, unfriendly.

“Retreat,” he says, “is sometimes tactically sound. When one is faced with a superior foe.”

“Are they so superior to yourself?”

Not in any way other than the obvious, James thinks. Birth. Fortune. Influence. The power to alter the rise and fall of nations. He settles for, simply, “Are you not one of them, then?” even though he knows the answer.

“As much as you are. Now. What did Lord Shaw say to you, earlier?”

James touches the piano again. It sidles up to the caress, like a lonely cat. Or maybe that’s merely wishful thinking. “I…am not certain how that might be any of your concern. My lord.”

“I find myself interested in pieces that seem out of place. They frequently move in the most intriguing ways. And we can dispense with the formalities; I’m not overly fond of the title.”

“It is still quite new.” Reckless, especially to this man; but he’s feeling off-balance, and frustrated about so many things.

“As is your own name.” Serene confidence in that return. “Where is your husband? I’ve been meaning to speak with him. Though I’m beginning to think I’d rather speak with you.”

“My husband is currently deep in conversation with two members of Parliament and Lord Vaughn, next to the refreshment table.” He doesn’t need to scan the room; he always knows where Michael is, even in a crowd. Could find those eyes, that smile, anywhere.

Michael, however, doesn’t appear to feel the same way about him. Or, at least, seems unbothered by the fact that they’ve not spent more than two minutes at each other’s side all evening. And hasn’t noticed the slights, or the condescending comments, or the politeness that verges on unspeakably rude insult.

“And you are here. Next to the piano.”

“I prefer the company of said piano.”

“I won’t say I blame you, but it perhaps lacks the political connections of the other occupants of the room.”

“I am speaking to you, at the moment, am I not?”

“A very palpable hit, indeed. Are you not enjoying the evening, then? It is your event, after all.”

“Not mine. I am merely decoration. Like the piano. Which no one here plays.”

“Ah. Is that what Lord Shaw said, then? I was quite certain I heard the word ornamental.”

“I am not,” James says, not without bitterness, “ _good_ at being ornamental.”

“Is that why he married you?” The sand-colored eyes stay on his; the question is an honest one, as if this man genuinely wants to know.

“No.” James sighs. He knows why Michael married him; can still hear the answer, to his own question, hanging in the air: _what do you want, please tell me_ followed by _you’re the only one who’s ever asked me that_ and _I’m marrying you because I want to_.

He remembers all that. He believes it. And he tries hard to be the husband Michael wants him to be. He’s just not certain why Michael wants _him_.

“Do you play?” A nod, towards the piano.

“A bit. I’m truthfully not very good.”

“Not what I’ve heard.”

“Perhaps,” James says, “you have been misinformed. I’ve certainly never had any formal training.” About anything. Anything he’d need, for this life.

“Perhaps I haven’t. Look around the room. Half of them are ready to call each other out on the spot. Accusations of disloyalty, drunkenness, personal vendettas…they could use a distraction, I suspect. Especially our Mr Fitzherbert, over there.” They both watch the Prince Regent laugh, uproariously, and call for another drink, face already as wine-red as the drapes. “Do you think you can provide…that distraction?”

It’s not a request. Not in that tone. James glares. Sighs. Sets fingers on the keys, bone-pale and cool to his touch. They’re both familiar and not: it isn’t his piano, not his house, but it welcomes him, a little wistfully, nonetheless.

The waltz he picks out, after a moment’s contemplation, is an older one, popular in London two seasons before; something brand new might’ve been too disruptive, while something even older might have drawn attention as unfashionable. This one, Earl Godwin’s song for his wife, is simple, and elegant, and full of love. As the best relationships ought to be, James thinks, and plays.

A few heads turn in their direction. Not too many, at first; but slowly, to the sound of the music, some of the tensions creak away. Conversations grow quieter. More amiable. Discussions of opera and the latest trends in lyric begin to float to the fore. The Prince Regent waves away another drink, pausing to listen.

“He appreciates music.”

“He reportedly appreciates many things.”

“You’re not as unaware of politics as you seem, are you?”

“I cannot afford to be unaware.”

“With the Fassbender name attached to your own, surely not.”

“With a sister wed to a soldier in His Majesty’s army, before that,” James retorts, as calmly as he can, as if they’re having this discussion on any sort of equal footing. “Of which you are not unaware as well.”

This earns a grin. “Of course I am. I am also right, by the way. Look around you.”

James doesn’t need to look. But he does scowl. “Do you ever tire of being right?”

“If I fail to be right, even once, England may lose the war.”

James does look up, at that. Meets the sudden honesty, in those eyes, with his own. “Well, you have been proven correct about me, at least.”

Arthur Wellesley laughs, once. Touches the piano, briefly, the same way James himself had, earlier. “I never learned to play. I was born a commoner, after all. Less than yourself.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“That I was born to a less than noble family, or that I’d admit such a fact to you?”

“That you were ever less than anyone, my lord.”

This time the laugh isn’t contained at all. James smiles, to himself. Keeps playing. No one else’s music, now. His own.

He’s never attempted this one in public before. Of course not; he’d only written it, in his head, the week before. And he’s composing, inventing, adding and subtracting, as he plays. Most of the time, he likes the way it sounds. When he doesn’t, he changes it around, and tries again.

“Fassbender is a very fortunate man. And a man with a fortune of which he might dispose. Tell me, do you know whether we might expect an increase in funding, this year, for the War Office?”

James raises both eyebrows, at that. “I am not…privy to those particular decisions. And if I were, do you think I’d be promising you funds when I cannot guarantee the delivery?”

“I suspect you’d only have to ask.”

“I suspect you do not know _all_ the details of my marriage. Any financial assets in this relationship have not been brought into it by me.”

“So you cannot ask.”

“Is the need that desperate?”

Wellesley says nothing, for a moment. Gazes out over the jewel-bedecked crowd, instead. “At the start of this war, they had such patriotic fervor. Donations, volunteers, avowed support from members of Parliament against the Corsican threat…they ask me now why I have not won the war for them in a day. And that support is…dwindling. The peers of England want their parties and circuses and frivolity; I need money.”

“But surely you can explain—”

“I have. Many times. They prefer not to know the gory details. If a soldier falls in battle, that is an honorable death, and he will be lauded for it. If he is crushed in the collapse of a broken-down cart that should’ve been chopped up for kindling months before it was sent to us as useful transport, they close their ears.”

James swallows. Hard. Thinks, momentarily, of Joy and of her husband, so far away, on campaign. In the silence, he misses a note, loses the rhythm; improvises, instead.  No one appears to notice. Of course not; the music’s coming out of his head in any case, so they’ll never know.

“Is that your own composition, by the way? I quite like it. Very pensive. But optimistic, I think, as well.”

Damn. “Yes.” No point in lying, not to this man. “It seems as if you need a way in which the peers of England can have what they want, while at the same time giving you what you require. If you make the cause attractive to them, again…”

“How?”

“Well…they do enjoy subscription balls, do they not? Lottery tickets? Charity events? Could you not…be one of those charities? Pet causes are fashionable, I believe. Wounded soldiers? Or…”

“Concerts, perhaps? With a modest admission fee?” Wellesley is eyeing him, and grinning, in a most unnerving fashion. “We could certainly arrange an account for these things. Here, in London, and elsewhere…”

“Concerts, certainly.” James throws a little sparkling run of notes into the end of the piece, just because he can, and because those shrewd eyes are still watching his hands. “Theater evenings? I believe we have a private one, somewhere, in this house. I might be able to find it for you.”

“I do enjoy the theme of your compositions, you know. I’ll expect you to send me a list early next week, of whatever you require from me. Include names, if you can. Anyone you know who might be persuaded to host, or attend, or perform, at such events. I also anticipate the presence of your name at the top of that list. Especially after that last lovely piece of innovation.”

James would glare again, but he can’t; if he’s honest with himself, he’s excited. This is something he can do. He can be of _use_. Not merely to Michael, but to Joy and her husband, to the war effort, to something beyond himself. It’s humbling. And he wants to smile.

“I’ll send you your official documentation tomorrow. Your papers, your military commission—it is still a requirement, technically, even if you never invoke it—and so on. Try not to wave them about; this will work best if you aren’t blatantly employed by me. If you need to, you can use my name to recruit the hesitant, but don’t wave that about either; only among those you trust. In any case, I imagine your own new name will open many doors to you. Oh, and you’ll have certain access to our accounts, of course, as you see fit. I trust you, knowing the value of money and appearances, to keep that secret as well.”

This time James nearly skips the whole final measure he’s been imagining, out of shock. Wellesley grins, and stops leaning against the piano, and turns to leave, and nearly runs into Michael.

Who looms over them, expression reminiscent of thunderclouds. As if he thinks that they’ve been plotting amorous encounters, not military strategy. “James?”

“Mr Fassbender,” Wellesley says cheerfully, “may I congratulate you on your choice of husband, I find myself in complete agreement as to his value,” and then vanishes into the crowd before Michael can close his mouth and answer.

“James, that was the _duke of Wellington!_ ”

“I am aware,” James says, still a bit astounded, “and I believe I’ve just been recruited by the War Office.” To which Michael says “You _what_?” loudly enough to make heads swivel towards them.

James rolls his eyes, says to the curious glances, “It’s not important, it’s…about the éclairs, _my husband_ is horrified that we’ve run out of chocolate, Michael, come with me, please,” and then gets them both out of the ballroom so that they can yell at each other someplace more private for a while.

Someplace more private turns out to be, appropriately, the music room. James smiles to himself, spotting the aged pianoforte; and then looks at Michael’s face.

“What the hell did you mean, you’ve been recruited by the War Office?”

“Will you stop shouting? I think our guests can still hear you. I think people in Scotland can hear you. I meant exactly what I said. But not in the way you think.”

“What—”

“All right, supposedly it comes with some sort of military commission, but that’s not—”

“What did he talk you into doing for him? And why did you listen? You don’t have to—I’ll go throw him bodily from the house if you’d like. Right now.”

“Michael…he didn’t talk me into doing anything. Or perhaps he did, but it was my suggestion. And I want to.”

“You—of course you think that, he’s very good at getting everyone to think that—”

“Would you actually listen to me?” James sits down at the bench, in front of the pianoforte, in the hope that this will get Michael to sit down too, and relax. The tactic doesn’t work.

So he touches the keys. Makes sound drift out into the air. The instrument is very old, and out of tune, but it tries for a melody regardless.

“That was you,” Michael says, after a minute. “I mean, of course it was you, playing, but after the first waltz…I didn’t recognize any of it. I thought—but that _was_ you playing. Composing. Wasn’t it?”

James shrugs. “Mostly, yes.”

“I didn’t know you wrote music. I knew you played, but…”

“I don’t. Not in any proper sense. I only…have ideas. Sometimes they work. Sometimes not.” He tries for a smile again. “I used to borrow my sister’s piano, before my father sold it to pay some of his debts. She hated the instrument, so she was always happy to share.”

Michael’s smile doesn’t quite succeed, either. Too shaky, around the edges. “James…are you…truly that sad? Here, with me?”

“It wasn’t all sad.” He’s figuring out how to work the atonalities into the current sequence of notes. They don’t sound so bad there, after all. He tests a fragment of tune. Makes a few adjustments. Tries again. Better.

“The beginning was.”

“But not the end. Well, except for the part where I forgot what I’d meant to play next. But still not sad.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t know you…heard music that well. I’m not sad. I was just…I’ve been feeling…your guests called me ornamental, earlier. And I’m not…I know I’m not used to this. All of this. Your world. I don’t…move in those circles. Not easily. And they all know that. And…”

“James, you—”

“You did ask. I’ve been feeling rather…at loose ends.” He punctuates that with an unfinished upward flip of notes, stopping too soon, and dissonant. “In your house. In your bed. I need…something of mine. To do. To _be_ , when I’m not being ornamental.”

“You,” Michael says, and swallows, and his voice sounds as if he wants to weep, “you never said—I had no idea you were unhappy, James, I thought—”

“I’m not unhappy. I’m happy. I love you.” At which point his hands freeze, over the expectant keys, because that sentence has just come out of his mouth and escaped into audible reality.

Michael stares. Crosses the room, very carefully, and folds himself down on the floor at James’s feet, heedless of the disastrous possibilities of floor polish versus expensive fabric. James blinks. “You could’ve—there’s space next to me, up here—”

“I know.” Michael reaches out. Gathers James’s cold hands into his. “What you just said…did you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it.” He does. And he might as well say it again. It doesn’t matter now; Michael’s already heard it once. “I do love you. You make me smile. In the mornings. And whenever I see you. And you’re brilliant, but you know that; I think I heard the prime minister tell you so, earlier tonight. And apparently you actually listen to my music when I play. So, yes, I love you.”

“James…” Michael squeezes his hands. Those pale eyes, the color of the first thaw of spring, are full of emotion; James isn’t quite sure how to read the melting, though, under all the ice. It’s been a very long winter, after all.

“Please don’t leave me,” Michael whispers, and his voice actually shakes, and that’s so far from anything James has been expecting that all he can say is, “What?”

“Please don’t—I can’t—I love you, too, I do, I know I haven’t been—please don’t go to France. Or anywhere else. Whatever he asked you to do—you know what the War Office does, James, and so do I, and what if you—whatever mission you’re supposed to be on, it isn’t worth it—”

“It’s not—wait, did you just say you _love me?”_

“I do.” Michael’s grip on his hands is even tighter, now. “I should have been telling you all along. From the day I married you. From the day you asked me whether I still wanted to marry you, and I said yes, because I did, and I do. I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so damned sorry. Is this—am I too late? Please say no, please tell me I’m not, because I can’t lose you, and I’ll follow you to France if I have to—”

“I—why do you keep insisting that I’m going to France? When did I ever say that? Or anything even remotely like it?”

“You—but you said—and I know Wellington’s been recruiting men for his covert operations, overseas, that’s—”

“Oh. _Oh_. You thought I—no. I’m not going anywhere. But I am working for him. Here, though. In England.”

“Then…I think I’m very confused. What is it that he wants you to do? Exactly?”

James grins. Taps his fingers, contentedly, against Michael’s hands, still wrapped around his. He can’t play anything, of course, with Michael holding him so closely, but he can hear the tune he wants, in his head, as bright and clear as the sudden hope in those wintergreen eyes.

He’d write this one as a duet, he thinks. Four hands, not two.

“Music, in fact.”

“What?”

“Or propaganda, if you want to call it that. But more entertaining.” He explains, while Michael listens. Neither of them releases their entwined hands; after a while, Michael starts nodding.

“That…makes quite a lot of sense. And you’ll be marvelous at it. Of course.”

“Of course?”

“What—yes, of course, you are marvelous, haven’t I—I haven’t, have I? Been telling you that?”

“Ah…not in so many words, no.”

“You mean not in any words. I’ve been very stupid. I need to apologize to you. Again. Possibly forever. You _haven’t_ been happy, have you?”

“I have, I’ve just said so—”

“James, I overheard…some remarks. That I should’ve been hearing all along. That was why I came over to find you. Well, that and a distinct desire to hit Wellesley in the face, because of the way he was looking at you. Only I get to be in love with you.”

“He’s not in love with me. Just with my useful attributes. What remarks? Was Lord Shaw talking again? Because if you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather we didn’t invite him to any future functions.”

“I love all your attributes. And not only because you’re useful, or beautiful—though you are—”

“I _knew_ you meant him when you said _remarks_.”

“—I love you because you’re _you_. Because you’re not like everyone else. Because you’re Scottish. Because you love chocolate. Because you want the best for everyone, always, and you’ve been practically killing yourself trying to do everything for me, and I never thanked you, I never thought about how much I was asking, because you _were_ doing everything, as if you’d always been good at it, and I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes I do. I promised, when I married you—no, when we married each other, sorry again—I said I’d be here for you. Through everything, better or worse. And I haven’t been. And when you said you’d agreed to—all I could think was that you were leaving me, and of course you were, because I hadn’t—I could _see_ you, being executed as a spy in some godforsaken corner of Napoleon’s little empire, without me there to—I never even knew you wrote music. And I couldn’t blame you for wanting to go. Because I’d never asked you to stay.”

“Well,” James says, after a second, in which he determinedly does _not_ cry, “I’m not going anywhere. Domestic recruitment and nothing else. I promise. And I don’t precisely enjoy the idea of me being executed as a spy in some godforsaken corner of France, either—”

“You can never bring that idea up again, and we’ll both be happier.”

“—and I’m sorry, too. I should’ve been talking to you. About how I felt. And I love you.”

“Don’t apologize. Not to me. I love you, James. Always.”

“Always. Curious, though…I suppose…I am technically a spy, aren’t I? Considering the ultimate purpose behind the War Office, and what I’m doing, and to whom I’m reporting…”

“Good god,” Michael says, after a second, “I’m married to a spy,” and when James looks at his face, he’s grinning. Delightedly. Not at all ashamed. Proud.

So James says, cheerfully, “So you are, and I suppose that means you’ll need to behave, I’ll have the power to arrest you if not,” and Michael starts laughing and James raises his eyebrows.“Oh, you think this is amusing? Perhaps I need to exercise my newfound authority over you, then? In our bedroom?”

Michael, still smiling, answers, “Yes, _please_ ,” and then, as James starts to stand up from the bench, “No, wait.”

“What? Why?”

“Because…I was down here on the floor for a reason. Other than trying to throw myself at your feet and beg you to stay, I mean. Though I was prepared to do that too. But, James…I never really asked you, the first time, did I? About marrying me?”

“I don’t believe our fathers asked either of us.”

“I know. But you deserve more than that. You deserve a proper proposal. From…someone who loves you. Who would do anything for you. You do—you know that, right? I would follow you to France if I had to, and I’ll give half our fortune to that bastard Wellington if you and he ask me to—”

“Not half. Maybe a third, though.”

“I will, if it’ll keep you here in England and safe.”

“I wasn’t serious!”

“—and I’ll buy you a hundred pianos if you want that—”

“Where would we _put_ a hundred pianos? Do you—we—have that many houses?”

“No, we don’t, and would you be quiet, I’m trying to propose to you—I love that you just said we. And I love that you write music and I’ll listen to everything you want to play for me and I’ll stand by your side every second and tell you that I love you every day, because I do, and I always will, so will you marry me? Again?”

“Not _again_ ,” James says, and he’s not certain whether he’s laughing, too, or crying, now, “but _still_. Forever. I want to be married to you forever. Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Indisputably, inarguably, entirely yes. Also…”

“What?”

“Yes to another wedding _night_ , as well.”

“You—we did say bedroom—or—oh—or here. Here is good. Here?”

“Definitely here.”

And the antique pianoforte, as it turns out, is decidedly sturdy, and not easily scandalized, and very ready to noisily approve.


End file.
